Game of Tails
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Part 7 in my Tail series. Sherlock and John confront Moriarty at the Pool with an unexpected result.


Game of Tails

Dreading the moment that Sherlock would see him and draw the obvious conclusions, John stepped out into the pool and turned towards his best friend. "Evening."

Sherlock was staring at John in absolute and utter shock, frozen in disbelief.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John recited the words he was being fed through the earpiece in the most monotone voice he could imagine. Just because Moriarty was forcing him to do this didn't mean he was going to play along. If the man wanted to sass at Sherlock, he could just come right out and do it himself.

"John," said Sherlock softly, still in shock as he started to turn towards him. It killed John to see the betrayal in Sherlock's eyes. "What the hell…"

"Bet you never saw _this _coming," John recited. At long last, he was allowed to open the coat and reveal to Sherlock that he was just another pawn of Moriarty's, forced to recite these words or die. The relief on Sherlock's face was a welcome sight. "What…would you like me…to make him say…next?"

As Sherlock glanced around the pool, trying to deduce anything he could, Moriarty's voice continued in his ear. Thankfully, the charade didn't last very long before Moriarty joined them. He taunted Sherlock as he introduced himself, unminding of the gun Sherlock was pointing at his face.

During Moriarty's monologue, Sherlock glanced at the vest John was wearing, his eyes poring over it. John could tell he was looking for a way to defuse the bomb telekinetically, but he knew Moriarty had pulled out all the stops. John pushed forward with his mind, giving Sherlock's chest a light push. Sherlock's gaze shot up to John's, who gave a small shake of his head.

"Don't be silly," said Moriarty, misinterpreting the look on Sherlock's face. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

The conversation continued, John keeping his eyes out for any kind of opportunity, and he was sure Sherlock was doing the same. It was obvious from Moriarty's words that he was oblivious to their secret. There had to be a way to exploit that to their advantage. John thought he had his opportunity when he grabbed Moriarty and told Sherlock to run, but Sherlock refused to budge, would not leave John behind, the stubborn git.

Finally, Moriarty was on his way out, leaving them with a vague threat, and Sherlock was tearing the bomb vest off of John, who had never been so grateful to take a coat off. Unfortunately, the relief did not last.

"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty yelled as he pushed open the door at the end of the pool behind him. "I'm _so _changeable!"

_Think, dammit, think! _Sherlock ordered himself as he stood frozen in front of John. If he didn't think quick, they were both going to die.

For that was the only conclusion he could see to this Game: their deaths. Moriarty would not have come back otherwise.

"You can't be allowed to continue," said Moriarty calmly. "You just can't."

_Think, think! _Sherlock thought frantically. _What's the one advantage you have over Moriarty right now?_

"I would try to convince you, but…" said Moriarty.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. _He doesn't know the truth. _His eyes tracked over to the pool.

"…everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Moriarty ended in a near-whine.

Sherlock glanced to his right at John, who was staring up at him, half in horror and half in hope, waiting for his genius of a friend to have a plan at the last minute. And sure enough, he did. Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the pool and back to John. He could see the comprehension click in John's eyes as the doctor then nodded.

Sherlock took a steadying breath and then turned towards Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." He faced the consulting criminal and aimed the gun at him.

Moriarty only stared back at him as he then lowered the gun towards the bomb vest on the floor. He watched Moriarty tilt his head in interest, practically daring him to pull the trigger. He waited for the signal he knew John would send, and sure enough, he felt the cuff of his trousers tap against his leg.

Sherlock pulled the trigger just as John pushed away from the cubbies, using telekinesis to send him further. John collided with Sherlock as the bullet hit its mark, and as the explosion filled the room, they fell towards the pool, plunging into the water as the flames roared above them.

Sherlock tried to get his bearings as he sunk down towards the bottom of the pool, the bang of the gunshot and concussion of the bomb blast ringing in his ears. He shook his head as the transformation overtook him, and he turned quickly in the water, relieved when he found John swimming towards him, unharmed except for a small scratch along his arm.

John came to a stop next to him, and they floated down at the deep end, gazed riveted on the surface, where the flames were beginning to die down. Sherlock looked over at John, holding up his hand in front of himself as he glanced at the surface and back again. There was no way Moriarty and his snipers could have survived that blast, but it was better to be cautious. John nodded, raising his own hand, and they became invisible.

It was fifteen minutes later when Sherlock started to feel like he was suffocating. He could feel his lungs finally start to ask for air, and several seconds later, they were starting to beg for it. As his right hand kept him invisible, he reached out with his left, moving it back and forth until he found John's arm. He clutched onto it, his gaze moving in that direction. He knew it probably wasn't safe yet, and therefore, he could not surface. If his mind were in a better condition (instead of screaming for oxygen), he probably could have thought of something, but all he could do was reach out to John for help.

After a moment, he saw a line appearing in the water, snaking its way down towards the bottom. The next second, Sherlock realized what it was: the water was parting, creating a funnel of air from the surface.

_Of course! _Sherlock thought.

He let go of John's arm and stretched his hand out, telling the water to part. Immediately, a tunnel of air started sinking towards him, and as the water cleared from the front of his face, he took a deep breath, nearly hyperventilating a few times.

Once he had caught his breath, he relaxed his hold on the water, letting it rush back in to occupy the empty space. He would be good for another fifteen minutes, by which time he and John could begin to leave. Sherlock felt a touch on his left shoulder, and he reached up to pat John's hand a couple times, letting him know that he was all right and grateful.

Another ten minutes, and Sherlock dropped his cloak. He glanced over as John materialized next to him. Sherlock jerked his head towards the surface and made his way upwards. He broke the surface and glanced around, his deductions proven correct by the devastation of what remained of the pool room: if anyone had survived, they had long ago left.

Sherlock looked over at John floating next to him. "We should have just enough time to dry off and leave before the police get here—"

The sound of rubble falling to the tiled floor echoed through the room, and they turned to look at the doorway that led towards the front of the building. It had been jammed with great chunks of concrete and drywall, but it was now slowly crumbling as something pounded on the other side of the pile of debris. Between the blows, they could make out the squeal of police radios.

Sherlock looked over at John with wide eyes and then dove back under the surface with him, taking up residence once more in the deep end. John shared an annoyed look with him before they once more turned invisible. As the sound of the debris pile finally tumbling out of the doorway reverberated through the floor and then the water, Sherlock created the tunnel of air again, this time directing it to his ear. He needed to hear what they were saying.

"Oh, Christ," muttered a familiar voice.

_Lestrade, _Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes. _Donovan and Anderson can't be far behind._

"I think we found the center of the blast," Lestrade went on.

"Do you think anyone was here?" asked Anderson.

"Won't know until we look," said Lestrade. He raised his voice to address whatever number of officers had now arrived. "All right. Start digging. Look for any kind of incendiary device or remains."

It was ten minutes of this before he heard a new voice.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sherlock never thought he would be grateful to hear his brother's voice.

Footsteps sounded on the tile. "Yes, who are you?"

"A member of the British government." _The brush of clothes rustling together; no doubt pulling his ID out. _"That's all you need to know."

_A long pause; Lestrade reading the name in shock, probably. _"Holmes…that's a coincidence."

"I assure you it's not," Mycroft told him. "Sherlock Holmes is my brother."

"Oh, God, there's two of them?" Donovan spoke up.

"Quite," said Mycroft. "Now, your men need to clear the site."

"Clear it?" asked Lestrade.

"Evidence has come to light linking this incident with an ongoing case at MI-6," Mycroft rattled off. "We will be taking over from here."

Lestrade gave a sigh. "All right, everyone! Clear out!"

A few seconds went by before anyone spoke again.

"You haven't heard from Sherlock, have you?" asked Lestrade. "No one's seen him or John since the last pip, and…well…"

"According to my sources, both of them are at Baker Street, John getting some well-deserved rest while Sherlock yells at the telly," Mycroft replied.

"Right," said Lestrade.

Footsteps receded into the distance, and then there was silence for a minute until Mycroft spoke again. "You're welcome."

Sherlock shed his invisibility as he swam for the surface. Mycroft was standing at what was left of the cubicles, looking down at them.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock muttered in annoyance. Just because he was glad they had been saved didn't mean he liked the fact that he owed his brother now. "You could've stopped them from coming into the building."

"That would've caused too much suspicion," Mycroft replied, staring down at the two of them with wide eyes.

"I thought you said he knew about us," said John next to him.

"He overheard several of our conversations because he bugged the flat," Sherlock responded, reaching the edge of the pool. "He's never seen a merman tail before."

He placed his hands on the blackened tile and pulled himself up, getting his hip onto the edge. He then turned to sit on the floor and started to pull himself backwards.

John pulled himself up next to Sherlock, pulling his tail free of the pool and then starting to dry himself off. "Bugging the flat, Mycroft? You're lucky I'm not offended."

"As you should be," Sherlock muttered, steam rising from his tail as he hovered his hand over it.

"Merely a means of keeping track of my brother," said Mycroft, watching the proceedings with slight interest. "He does tend to attract the worst sort of attention." He glanced around the destroyed pool. "Case in point."

Sherlock's tail vanished, and he stood from the floor, glancing over at where the bomb vest had been. The tiles had been cracked, and there was a hole several inches deep. The cubicles next to it were completely devastated, and the door where Moriarty had entered that final time had blown backwards into the corridor behind it. The walls and ceiling had crumbled, leaving a giant pile of debris on the floor and falling into the pool.

"Did he survive?" asked Sherlock.

"The cameras were disabled before you arrived," Mycroft answered.

John stepped up next to them. "Well, let's find out." He raised his hand, moving piece by piece of debris.

Sherlock joined in, securing any weight-bearing sections of the pile and making sure the building didn't collapse on them. When they reached the bottom, they could find no sign of human remains.


End file.
